


Shine Bright

by docboredom



Category: Planet Booty (Band), TWRP | Tupper Ware Remix Party (Band)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, IT'S THE BELIEVABILITY OK, M/M, also once again all of twrpbooty is there in passing, also thats my lore you bitch, anyways au where uh everything doesnt suck and twrpbooty was gonna tour this year lmfao, god ao3 im so sorry for this tagging except not really, i mention it in the authors notes fuck off, it's BOTH kinds wow would you look at that, oh look it's another doc booty origin story ok listen im aware, rated t for saucy smoochies, this is another one of those natalie pulls from real life fics, you think i'd leave them out god damn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:48:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23294251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/docboredom/pseuds/docboredom
Summary: This is an accident, he thinks, a moment of impossibility. They don’t have instances like this when they’re on tour, where the world hasn’t quite caught up to them. They’re going-going-going from sun up to sun down.But it’s still dark. It’s still quiet.The world’s been put on hold.
Relationships: Dylan Germick/Doctor Sung (TWRP)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	Shine Bright

**Author's Note:**

> BRO I KNOW I JUST POSTED A DOC BOOTY THING BUT LIKE, FUCKING, UH... THAT WAS BEFORE PLANET BOOTY LITERALLY GAVE ME MY DOC SUNG RIGHTS LMFAO THIS NEEDED TO BE DONE.
> 
> Also how many times can I tell the same story? Who knows! You're reading it so you tell me!!!  
> (also star singer is so fucking outdated my writing style has changed sO much since then god damn so like, can you even count that???? probably idk iT IS 5:34 AM I HAVEN'T POSTED SOMETHING LIKE THIS THIS LATE NIGHT IN A HOT SECOND)

It starts out like _this._

It’s spring time. The days are getting longer. The air is balmy with the promise of rain. Dylan half wakes up with his mouth smeared across Sung’s bare shoulder, the birds outside the window singing a prelude to the oncoming day.

He closes his eyes, pulls Sung a little closer, and listens to the way the alien sighs in his sleep. This is an accident, he thinks, a moment of impossibility. They don’t have instances like this when they’re on tour, where the world hasn’t quite caught up to them. They’re going-going-going from sun up to sun down.

But it’s still dark. It’s still quiet. 

The world’s been put on hold. 

Sung’s drooling just a little bit, his core going dim-bright-dim with every breath he takes. His hair’s all mussed up from falling asleep on it wet from the shower the night before and he smells like fucking peppermint and rum; a hotel shampoo speciality. 

There’s no way of telling what time it is. They had gone and covered the alarm clock the night before and Dylan doesn’t want to check his phone. He noses along Sung’s neck instead, along the angled point of his freckled ear. Skims his foot along Sung’s calf, down his ankle, and then along the back of his foot until he jumps in his sleep and huffs just a little bit. 

The realization hits like _this._

It’s not that he loves Sung. He’s known that for quite some time. It’s more or less the sudden need to make something for the other man. Something that encompasses the quiet moments. The hurry-scurry. The touch and go. The… well. The _everything_. The fact that he’ll have to run it by Josh and Rob doesn’t really matter when Sung’s spine arches so perfectly into his body, nor does the fact that he’ll have to actually sit down and fucking write it. It’s a requirement at this point. 

A necessity. 

The story goes like _this._

Tactile Sensation had been the first stepping stone. Sung’s first real big move in a game that started the moment their eyes met three years ago. Up until that point, it had been the usual. Dylan flirting without really meaning to, Sung playing along eagerly. A delightful push-pull that both of them seemed to thrive on. And then: “what’re you doing this summer?” came the text one day, almost seeming to startle him. “You wanna make a fucking song?”

Then comes the summer in question. Venue after venue. Show after show. 7-11 runs that end up with just the two of them seated in the parking lot when it gets to be too much, bags of candy and jelly beans and flaming hot popcorn strewn over the dashboard, some otherwordly electronic music playing nice and slow. It always ends up with Sung pointing out constellations that Dylan had forgotten the names of through the sunroof too, their shoulders touching, both seats knocked back down...

There’s the doubling up in restaurant booths too, not an inch between them, menus overlapped. Walking the streets at midnight- Sung’s laughter a constant echo that Dylan can never get enough of. Their gazes catching, holding…

All of that on repeat until Sung kisses him.

It’s on their way to Des Moines of all places, on a too hot night next to the ice machine. Sung’s got that stupid visor of his one so no one will know what he’s an alien; the sight of it comical under the fluorescents, made moreso by his oversized t-shirt and boxer shorts. “I’m telling you.” Dylan remembers saying, passing a water bottle between his hands absentmindedly. “It was filmed _in_ Iowa. It’s not that far away.”

“Are you really trying to sell me on visiting the _Field of Dreams_?” Sung slants his body against the soda machine as he hugs the bucket of ice, brow well on it’s way to a judgemental crease. “Germick…”

“Doc.” He counters right back, already grinning. “You’re like, always going on about how much you love the 80s.”

“I _do_ love the 80s.” He strokes his mustache, fails to keep his face straight despite his best efforts.

Dylan’s grin grows, turns shit-eating. It's so damn easy sometimes. “Case and point. _Field of Dreams_. 80s. It’s like, barely out of our way.” It _is_ very much out of their way, but he needs help convincing the rest of the gang. “Trust me, I’m from the Midwest. Chicago and Milwaukee are like, the best parts.”

Sung gapes, apparently incredulous at this claim. “I like Minneapolis! And we drove through the Dells-”

“Wisconsin Dells is overpriced, shorty.” He bites at the cap and curls his socked feet on the ground. “You ain’t never swam in a river and it shows.”

Sung’s mouth falls open and he flings an ice cube in his direction, which Dylan dodges easily, dancing that much closer to him without even really meaning to, drawn into Sung’s easy gravity. “Listen. I’m saying there’s gonna be _nothing_ from here on out, and this is coming from someone that came from Indiana. Remember that? Crossroads of America? Everyone wants to get the hell out.” Dylan gestures to himself, the prime example of fucking off, which gets him another ice cube toss, this one almost hitting him. “ _Geeze-us_. Look at the mess you’re makin’, fun size!” 

“You’re the one not catching them!” He’s got that look on his face Dylan knows and loves, dimpled and mischievous. “This is _your_ fault.”

“My fault!” Dylan gasps dramatically. “I can’t believe you’d say that. I’ve never done anything wrong in my life.”

“Oh, is that so? So you didn’t speed down the highway?” Sung brings their shoulders together, jostling Dylan. “And you didn’t stream that movie illegally?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Purses his lips and laughs. “Fuck. Okay. Ya got me.” They ought to get back to the room but they can’t be giggly and stupid back there. Not at this hour at least. “But that was all for the greater good. Besides. Meouch is _kind of_ a grandma when it comes to being behind the wheel. You really gotta stop letting him do that.”

Sung cackles. They’re actually going to get in trouble with some nearby room or hotel staff if they keep going. Dylan wonders if he should offer that they go put their shoes on and walk, but then Sung shifts the ice bucket in his arms, makes a disgruntled sound. “...Cold?” Dylan guesses. 

“A little, yeah.” It probably isn’t the most comfortable thing, Dylan can’t help but think. They really should just go to bed. It’s late. They’ve got to be up extra early, especially if they’re going to the _Field of Dreams_. “It’s okay though. I’m a tough guy.”

“Oh trust me, I know.” Dylan eyes the other’s bulging muscles for just a beat too long. It’s freakin’ ridiculous. Phobos had shown all of them older photos of them and Dylan had done a double take at the small and lanky past Sung, not quite believing it. “But you’re not invincible. Here. Trade with me.” He holds out his Crunch bar and water, making grabby hands at the alien. 

Sung doesn’t though. He just stays there with the ice bucket clutched to his chest, face unreadable. “Sorry.” He says after a beat. “I… just had a moment.”

While his face is unreadable his core isn’t. It’s dim and low in his chest even under the wraps. Worry. Nerves. Anxiousness. Dylan’s been learning all the differences. He waits, and as always, Sung follows up immediately. He’s never been that keen on lingering silences. “I really wanted to stop time just now.” He says in a soft voice, barely audible. “Even if it was just for a little bit.”

His fingers slip on the condensation and Dylan watches him subconsciously adjust his grip. “I love being here. More than being there, sometimes.” There meaning where he came from. Where all of TWRP did. “And sometimes there's nights where I feel so damn guilty about it, and other nights where I could give two shits.” 

The ice shifts in the bucket a little bit and makes a subtle crackling sound. “You think by now I’d be better at all of this. Getting used to it, at least. The coming and the going. The… inconsistency.” His core goes dimmer, somehow as he turns his head. A tired, dying light. “But saying good-bye keeps getting harder, and I’m getting to the point where I don’t ever want to leave.”

There’s the Sung he knows, who likes to pour just a little too much ranch onto his pizza and who hoards hotel toiletries for “later on”. And then there’s the other Sung who he’s only heard stories of, who speaks to the universe and fights against agents of boredom and strange gods. So he gets it without actually getting it. The guilt. The idea of finality. Sung’s simultaneously two different people at once, and he’s this close to tearing himself apart-

“Then I guess you gotta make every moment count if you can’t stop time.” Dylan knows he can’t argue Sung out of what he is, so this is the next best step. Small comforts where they can be found. Little bits of happiness. “Be your best self. Never regret anything. Keep doing what you do best, shorty.” He touches the spot right below Sung’s core and smiles his most genuine smile. “Keep shining on.”

It finally happens just like _this._

The ice bucket hits the floor in seconds and Dylan doesn’t even have any time to register the fact because his mind is on other things. Like how Sung is _kissing_ him, and how he has a death grip on the front of his shirt in order to pull him down, and how his mouth is so god damn sweet and soft, and-

Oh, oh, _oh_ . They’re falling because of the ice, because of the imbalance, because they’re both already too into this even though it’s just begun. Dylan half lands against the wall and brings Sung with him, not even giving himself a moment to ask wait, what, really? and instead just taking it all. “Dylan.” He swears he hears Sung moan in the back of his throat, prompting him to deepen the kiss even more. They should have been doing this before. Fuck, why _hadn’t_ they been doing this before? All Dylan wants is to rip that stupid visor off right this instant and get his hands _all_ over Sung. 

“Dylan.” Sung says again and it’s a pleading gasp, verifiably worrisome. He pulls away and forces himself to calm the fuck down and use his brain for once. Sung’s flushed, panting. Jesus. This is unacceptable. By the fucking ice machine- “I forgot how to breathe.” He gulps out.

Dylan goes very still. Doesn’t even blink. Then he throws his head back and loses it. Because only Sung would forget how to breathe when kissing someone. Of course this would be what happened to them. “Shorty…” He manages between great whooping laughs, crying because he’s laughing so hard. “You can't be fuckin' serious.”

“I am!” Sung seethes in a too loud voice, fingers still caught in the fabric of his shirt, their hips this close to slotting up. “Part of the problem is I wasn’t expecting you to kiss me-”

Dylan finally sobers. Touches Sung’s jaw carefully. “So... this is _my_ fault.”

He can’t see Sung’s eye behind his wrap around visor, but Dylan just knows it’s widened exponentially. “...Yeah, it’s your fault.” He sounds breathless for a completely different reason now, the light of his core flaring…

“Well, I guess I’ll take the blame this time.” He leans his head in until their lips are hovering over one another, causing Sung’s throat to bob. “I just can’t help myself, after all.” He grins. It's wolf like.

Sung absolutely loves it.

It ends up like _this._

A long distance relationship that spans the literal spheres of space and time, made possible by the clever piloting and machinations of Commander Meouch and Havve Hogan, respectively. Real _Interstellar_ shit, Dylan likes to think. And really it isn’t just for them, because that’d be overly dramatic and selfish and “very young adult fantasy romance trilogy” of them as Josh would say, but because they were all friendship bound. TWRP and Planet Booty forever wasn’t just a throwaway phrase, after all. 

It’s a promise.

So it comes back to _this._

The sky turning it’s deepest blue. Sung’s form curled and trusting. The thump-thump-thump of his heart as his eyes begin to close, the beginnings of a song starting to form.

_It’s on my mind, the way you shine. You’re a star…_

_You’re a star._


End file.
